


Sweet Poison

by YuuGiOKaeri



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All-Nighter, Angst, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Implied drug usage, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, implied alcohol usage, mormor, recihenbach, st bart's, took all night to write, written about a year ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuuGiOKaeri/pseuds/YuuGiOKaeri
Summary: Seb knew his boss the best. Seb loved his boss the best. Seb felt his loss the best. No one could possibly understand how he feels when he sees his boss dead on the top of St Bart's.





	Sweet Poison

Seb stuffed his phone in his pocket, taking off in a run. It’d been the one day his boss had forced him into taking off. “ _I don’t want you around today.”_

_“Shot himself in the head, sir - I saw it,”_ Jackson, Moriarty’s other sniper, said. _“On top of Bart’s. We were on a job, too. Holmes is there.”_

That was all he needed to hear.

Seb rushed into the hospital, past curious eyes. He went into the lift, slamming down on his button. Panting slightly, his heart raced as he stood there, waiting and helpless.

_“A live-in one?” Seb asked, tilting his head. “And whom will you take, sir?”  
_

_Jim planted his hand on the armrest of the chair, smiling his creeping, cruel smile. “You, Basty. You’re the funnest one.”  
_

With a jerk, the lift halted, letting on a lone nurse. She hit the below-ground level button - the morgue. Nodding amiably to Sebastian, she didn’t notice his distress.

As soon as he was on the top floor, Seb shot up the stairs, onto the rooftop. Soft snow fell around him, catching in his hair and against his face.

_“Just put that somewhere,” Jim said, waving his hand dismissively when Seb picked up a blood-soaked sweatshirt._

_“What was this for?”  
_

_Jim laughed. “You’re **adorable** , Sebastian. Don’t worry about it.”_

The body was there. It was like his understudy had said. James Moriarty was dead.

But Holmes was also gone. Seb didn’t care. The sight of blood pooling around his boss’ head was enough to vomit over, even for the colonel, especially for the colonel.

_With shaking fingers, Jim undid Seb’s shirt buttons, breath catching in the sniper’s kisses. Next to go were his trousers._

Moran staggered back down the stairs, somehow keeping his balance. When he was out of the suffocating hospital, he walked. He walked, slowly through London, trying to catch his breath. Once he reached a silent dock, the turmoil within erupted.

_“Thank you, Sebby dear,” Jim said, taking the cigarette. “One needs a smoke now and again, especially on days like these.”  
_

_“Days like these?” Seb ignored the fact that he was smoking inside of the flat._

_“Bad days.” Jim took a long drag, closing his eyes. “Relapse days.”  
_

Seb choked on the tears, running his hands over his face before collapsing, before his body folding in two. He held his face in his hands, sobbing.

Jim was gone forever now. There was no return from a bullet in your brain - shot clean through.

_Seb traced the delicate patterns with his fingers over Jim’s upper arm. The careful lines ran over everywhere no one would ever see them. One of the cuts was fresh, criss-crossing over previous scars._

As he walked home, it became dark. Seb lit a cigarette, pressing it to his teeth. The scent of nicotine mingled the London’s back-streets.

He came into the flat, looking over it. Sebastian suddenly hated everything: the bed they had spent countless nights in, the small table loaded with Jim’s crap, the fridge full of his cooking. It was a reminder that Jim could no longer be there to make love to, clutter the flat with his things or force-feed Seb with his terrible food.

Seb rested his head on the wall, closing his eyes. He hated everything.

_I ruined the kitchen, Seb,” Jim said, crossing his arms. “Damnit. I’ll have to get a full replacement again.”  
_

_“Don’t do your crazy-arse experiments in there,” Seb said, smiling, “and these sorts of things won’t happen.”  
_

The sun washed over Seb, crumpled on the floor. The morning had come too soon, in his opinion. Sunlight interrupted the mourning of darkness, especially when you had good reason to wallow.

Seb sat up, rolling his tongue over the roof of his mouth. The taste of the dark still lingered, annoyingly.

The floor was dirty and probably hadn’t been cleaned in years, now that the blonde thought about it. His memory provided a sudden, clear image of Jim’s body, not dead, but alive and beneath him; what could’ve happened if he’d survived the bullet.

_“Seb,” Jim hissed between his teeth, pushing his bodyguard away. “I have a meeting.”_

_“No,” Seb said simply, deftly undoing the red silk tie Jim was wearing. The criminal slid away, getting caught by the back of his suit jacket. “We need to talk, James.”_

Sebastian was ill for weeks, running a high fever, vomiting often, sometimes just dry gags. Needles and bottles were his only relief.

The forget was all he came to live for, clear eyes often wide with the high. Always drunk, high or both, it wasn’t permanent. The pain was still back in the morning when he woke up in that bed, usually because of a vivid dream.

Even pleasure in his dreams was pain in the morning.

Sometimes, Seb would even hear things. Jim laughing, while telling him off for tasting something yet unready or his boss’ sharp intakes of breath when they were under the sheets at night.

_“You have that look again,” Seb said. Jim shrugged, rocking along to something on his iPod. This was the look that Jim had when he was closest to being sad._

_“Go entertain yourself,” he said, smiling slightly. It was a glass smile, one that was see-through and fragile._

_“Do you really want me to?” Seb asked, holding his employer tightly. Jim broke free, countenance contorting bitterly._

_“Leave me alone, Sebastian.” Seb backed away, for the first time tasting the poison slipped into his sweetness._

Now Seb felt the same, cutting himself off. His mobile rang often, but he ignored, to busy with something to elevate himself.

One day, he checked his phone and felt his breath simply die. Not get lost, or be taken away: just die out slowly, like an iron grip had fastened around his lungs. Someone had been texting his personal mobile, a number unknown to many. But not unknown to his boss.

_**Do you always take this long to reply? I don’t remember our previous conversations taking this long. -JM**_ the latest one read, the one which caused Seb to drop his phone to the floor.

Seb sat down, a numb adrenaline rushing in his veins. His boss had been texting him this long, without the sniper’s notice.

He picked his phone back up, in trembling fingers, typing, **_Where are you?_** Thirty seconds later, there was a reply.

**_‘Bastian! -JM_** Seb set down the mobile, taking long breaths. His pulse rocketed, and some feeling returned to the numb.

**_I’ve been waiting, Tiger. About time you replied. Currently, I’m in Dublin, waiting for you. Do hurry. :) -JM_ **

Seb scrolled through the texts. The oldest was from a week after Jim’s death. **_How’d it look? Was it convincing? You saw me, after all, Seb. You knew I was fine, of course. -JM_**

Head spinning, the sniper sat down his phone. He needed to either process this, or get on the nearest plane to Dublin.

Choosing the latter option, Sebastian Moran, the loyal sniper-bodyguard to James Moriarty, revived. He stuffed the most essentials into his rucksack, slinging it easily over his shoulder.

Seb ran—hell, he ran—while purchasing digital tickets. Jim, alive. It was a colourful blur to the blonde, memories racing through his mind all throughout the process of getting on the plane.

_“Seb,” Jim mumbled, eyes half-shut. “I’m sleepy.”_

_“Then go to sleep.” Seb smiled, brushing his hand over his boss’ warm forehead. “Sick people should sleep.”_

_“But I also wanna be with you.” The whine in the Irishman’s voice was apparent, sounding pathetic while he was this sick._

_“I’ll sit here while you sleep, Jimmy. I’m right here.” Seb pulled him closer, a secret smile on his face._

The plane finally landed, then let off passengers. Seb was the first out, shooting into the crowds, toward the man he saw holding a stuffed-animal tiger, brown eyes covered by sunglasses.

Jim opened his arms, the stuffed animal dangling from one hand. Seb scooped him up, pressing his mouth against the consultant criminal’s. Their embrace seemed to last nowhere near long enough when the bodyguard released his boss.

“Missed you, too,” Jim said, smiling. And this was his true, loving smile.


End file.
